Family
by RedDevilGirl
Summary: *S3 Spoiler Warning* Tag to No Rest for the Wicked. Straight after midnight, Sam's alone.


**Family**

He knew it was bad. Hell, he knew he'd never come across anything as _bad _as this in his whole life. _Bad _didn't even come close. Didn't even touch it.

The boys had vanished into the house fifteen minutes earlier. Now it was silent. Nothing but the patter of the holy water sprinklers on the lawn. The screams had stopped. Awful, gut-wrenching, terrified screams. Dean's screams. He couldn't help but think _his boy's screams_. He wasn't his. He knew that. But hell, he was the closest thing he'd ever had. Now nothing. Just the sprinklers. Breathing heavily, he heaved open the white painted door, the remnants of the dust no longer forming a barrier between his boys and the hellhounds. He resisted the urge to call their names; he always started with Dean first. It was habit. A lump rose in his throat as he stepped in, firstly taking in the blonde on the ground, so delicate and petite in death, her body twisted and clearly past its use by date. The poor girl had probably been dead at least twelve months. Bobby felt a pang of sadness; she'd never go home to her family. Swallowing deeply, he allowed his eyes to travel to take in the rest of the room, preparing for an emotion he'd felt once before. A year ago to the day.

Once again Bobby's heart felt like it was being ripped from his chest as the youngest Winchester, little Sammy Winchester crouched on the floor, white-faced and shaking, holding his brother, holding John's boy... holding _their Dean._ He'd been more to Bobby than just John's boy for a long time. Hell, they both had. His beautiful deep green eyes stared unseeing at the perfectly painted ceiling as Sam's tears mixed with the bloodied mess on his pale face. He drew in a deep breath, the urge to sink to his knees and scream to the heavens almost overwhelming him, his own grief threatening to overtake every deeply engrained hunters' instinct.

"Sam?" He sank down beside the shaking young man. Sam didn't look up. He was muttering under his breath, hugging Dean's ripped and torn body against his. shit, there was so much blood. So much blood. Still, Sam didn't move. He squeezed his eyes closed, as if he was trying to wake up from his worst nightmare. Bobby glanced around him, his hunter's instincts pricking at his consciousness. Lillith. What happened to Lillith?

"Sam... son, you need to look at me. Please, Sam."

He didn't move. He was rocking slightly, his hands covered in blood. His brother's blood. Sam flinched, terrified, and blinked slightly at Bobby, perfectly formed pearly tears dropping from his eyes with the movement. He hitched in a breath and tried to speak, but his throat froze as his hopeless eyes met Bobby's grief-stricken gaze.

"Ssshh." He laid an arm on Sam's, the big man trembling head to toe under his light grip. He closed his eyes a second, unable to shake Sam's wide eyed, tearful gaze, begging him to make it all go away, pleading with Bobby to make it all be okay. It's gonna be okay. How can anything, ever, ever be okay again?

"She's... she's gone." Sam swallowed deeply and convulsively. "Gone. I didn't... I tried Bobby..." He heaved in oxygen, knowing that he had to tell Bobby what happened but he hurt, everything hurt so damn much that he couldn't get the words out. Bobby. _Uncle Bobby_. But he didn't want Bobby. He wanted his big brother. _I want Dean_.

"Lillith's gone?" Bobby looked deep into Sam's eyes as more silent tears coursed their way down his cheeks, gripping his brother's body closer to him. He nodded vigorously and dropped his head away from the old man, burying his face in his brother's strong but torn-up chest.

"Sam..." His heart split as Sam sobbed against his brother's broken, twisted body, bloodstains now covering his jacket and oh my God, his face. Stop it Sam. Stop it, kid. We've got to get out of here. His heart pounded at the thought of the army that Lillith had waiting outside.

"Sam, come on. We need to get out of here." His voice fell quiet. "We need to get your brother out of here."

Sam looked up like the thought hadn't even occurred to him. Yeah. Of course. Of course we need to leave. We're... we're in someone's dining room. He nodded in reticent, panicked agreement, sniffing loudly through his running nose.

Bobby knelt down quietly. "You hurt? You think you can stand up?" His heart was pounding quickly; he hated to do this. But he knew there was no way on this planet he was physically capable of carrying one hundred and eighty pounds of Dean Winchester out of this building. And he had to go. Had to get John's boys out of here. Had to get _his boys _out of here. And the only way Dean was leaving was if his beaten, broken little brother carried him.

_It's okay Dean. I've got you. I've got you. We're going. We're leaving. I've got you. _Sam whispered gently into his brother's ear. _Bobby's right. We can't stay here. You ready? We're going. Gonna get in the car. It's okay. I've got you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. _He felt Bobby's arm on his back as he tried to rise up to his knees, stuttering slightly and his breath hitching as a huge sob escaped from his lungs. I can't do it. Can't save your brother, can't get him out of here. You're useless, Winchester. Bobby gripped Sam's shoulders as Dean's head rolled too easily, his glassy eyed stare snapping horrifically backward against Sam's arm.

"I... I can't do it.." He gasped, the tears spilling over again. "Bobby... I..."

"Yes you can, boy. You stand up tall and you get your brother out of here." Bobby's tone had an air of menace; he hated to do that to Sam. But he had to make him move. "There's still demons out there, Sam, and we ain't got much more fight in us for today. Now we, hell, I, need to get you and your brother home." Wherever the hell that is.

He took a step towards Sam and gently took hold of Dean's limp head, tipping it gently against Sam's heaving chest and gently closing his green eyes to look like he was sleeping. He almost thought, _sweet dreams, kid_, but knew that there wasn't a cat in hell's chance of that. Funny phrase. If a cat didn't stand a chance, what chance was there for a hunter? He clapped a protective arm over Sam's back as he saw the younger Winchester bite his teeth into his bottom lip, probably hard enough to draw his own blood, shooting a steely, determined glare towards the door and hauling his brother hard against his chest.

"Okay, Sam, we've gotta be careful. The sprinklers are still going but the demons are out there. If we're real careful, we should be able to get a straight run to the cars. Give me the knife and I'll go first. You... you take your brother outside and run. Don't look back."

He looked back to Sam, his cheeks still wet with tears but his eyes now fixed and unblinking. He made a move forward, in front of Bobby, as if he hadn't heard a word he'd said. Staring straight ahead, he clutched Dean to his chest as easily as if he was carrying a child. And he started walking. Bobby grasped at him as he started to move, boldly and purposefully towards the front door. No. No no no. He'd seen that look in a Winchester's eye before. Twice. And there was no fcking way he was going to let the same damn thing happen again. It was a glint, a threatening hybrid of determination and danger that he'd let the two elder Winchesters' pull over on him, right before they both managed to do the most stupid assed things that he'd ever, ever heard of. There was that look again, burning in the eyes of the last remaining Winchester. And Sam was striding out to a firing squad of demons.

He could barely keep up with Sam's purposeful steps as the young, powerful hunter, tear stained and caked in his sibling's blood, kicked open the front door with a mighty crash. Bobby called his name, screaming for him to stop, just knowing that he was walking out to let the demons finish him.

But Sam didn't hear him. He arrogantly scanned the porch, waiting, just _daring _the demons to try to take him. Bobby wielded the knife behind him, telling him to move his ass and get himself back to the car, that there wasn't much time, that the demons would be on their way... but nothing. Absolutely nothing. The sprinklers continued to spray, but the street was silent. Maybe... maybe with Lillith vanishing, the demon army had left too...?

No such luck. A black-eyed figure lurked in the bushes to their left, and when Bobby looked more closely, curtains were twitching over the street with black, evil eyes tracing Sam's every move. And still he stood, his jaw set and his eyes fixed in a straight ahead glare, the body of his dead brother clasped to his chest.

A gasp escaped the mouth of the demon, hidden in the foliage to Bobby's left. What the hell was Sam doing? Get the hell out of Dodge, boy, we've got to go! He looked imploringly at Sam. The boy's brother had just died in front of his eyes – surely he didn't want to go the same way too? The Demons would be there in seconds... but nobody (nothing?) made a move. It was still.

Suddenly, Sam's head snapped dramatically to his left hand side, his steel glare meeting the black eyes of the demon. A dark haired woman in her early thirties, she recoiled with a look of terror on his face as her eyes met Sam's, tipping back her head and vomiting black smoke vertically for what seemed like an eternity. Bobby stepped back, astounded. Sam didn't flinch as the smoke coiled upward, vanishing into the black of the night as her lifeless body crumpled to the ground.

Suddenly, the street sprang to life. Or death might have been a more appropriate turn of phrase. Sam started forward, stepping off the porch and heading towards the car, not surreptitiously but boldly striding towards the Impala. As soon as his feet hit the ground, house doors and windows were flung open, screams of terror escaping from the demons' hosts as Sam Winchester stormed down the middle of the road, his dead brother lolling in his arms and the corpses of the street's inhabitants dropping to the ground, stone dead. What the hell, Bobby thought, demons fleeing from _little Sammy Winchester_? He ran to catch up with the man's long steps, the moonlight illuminating Sam's stricken face as he caught up. Bobby flinched, sure that he was mistaken and that he didn't fleetingly see a flash of yellow running through the man's eyes.

Sam's stern-set expression barely flinched as he strode impetuously towards the Impala, oblivious to the demons making way for him, all the time muttering under his breath. _It's okay. It's okay. We're leaving here. I'll make it okay. Don't worry. I've got you. _He looked down, oblivious to the activity around him and to the old man racing behind him, shouting his name. He looked down at the Impala, a new panic setting in as his stony gaze fell on the car. Vaguely aware of Bobby reaching his side, he glanced down at his friend.

"Open the door, Bobby. I'm taking my brother home."

RDGRDGRDGRDGRDGRDG

Bobby sank down onto the sagging sofa, scrubbing his hand over his beard. His hands were still shaking. Damn it, old man, stop it. This is not the time to lose it. But if now wasn't the time... when the hell was? He'd let Dean down. He left him in that squat outside of Cold Oak, distraught and with naught but his dead brother and a bottle of cheap whiskey to numb the pain. He knew that the whiskey didn't work. And he knew what had happened next.

Sam hadn't gone for whiskey. Which surprised him. He'd seen Sam turn to the sauce on a few occasions; a few more than he'd have liked over the last year. Just like his Daddy. But not this time. He'd not gone for that. Hell, Bobby almost wished that the whiskey bottle was what Sam needed. It always knocked him out and by his reckoning, the boy hadn't had a wink of sleep in 72 hours. And a full night's sleep in who knows how long. Maybe years.

But it wasn't just the whiskey that had surprised Bobby. Sam wasn't crying. The tears had stopped with his resolve to take Dean far away from the Freemont's house. He'd tucked Dean into the back seat of the car, covered him with blankets and crooned to him that it was okay, that they were taking him far, far away. Bobby had driven as far as he could, fetched a room key and allowed Sam to silently stride in, his face still set in determination as he stripped off his bloodied clothes, leaving them in a heap in the middle of the floor. He walked straight into the bathroom in his underwear, not saying a word and leaving the door wide open. The shower had been running for thirty minutes.

Bobby pulled his ball cap off his head and slung it to the floor in a futile attempt to quell his desperation. It was three-thirty in the morning. They'd just rolled up in the middle of the night, a body of a man who'd technically died in an explosion months ago in the back of the car and Bobby had led Sam into the room covered almost head to toe in his brother's blood. He needed some time to sort this; to move the car, to move Dean, to get as far away as they could. The sun would be up soon. The gentle backdrop of the shower running reminded him that he couldn't go anywhere. He couldn't leave Sam.

If this _was _Sam. Bobby shuddered as he replayed the most unbelievably chilling scene he'd ever seen through his head, more awesome than the opening of the Devil's gate a year ago. The demons fled. All of them. Racing away as if their very lives depended on it as Sam strode past them. Fearing him. Dean's words echoed through his mind. _Do you think there's something wrong with my brother? _

He pulled at what was left of his hair, the emotion and physical fatigue catching up with him. _What am I supposed to do?_

Sam tipped his head down, unaware of the shakiness in his limbs as the water hit his hair and ran off, his stomach rolling over and over with each blood stained rivulet hitting the floor of the shower. He gasped as the red hot water soaked through his t-shirt and boxers but didn't bother to try to turn down the heat. He needed the heat. Needed it to wash away everything, all of it, to pretend it hadn't happened.

Leaning a hand against the wall of the shower, he sank down, his mouth wide open as the water, the sweat and the blood ran from his skin and down the drain. He sat down and pulled his knees up to his chest, his hair running over his eyes as he stared straight ahead. He listened. Carefully. As usual, he'd left the door open. He always left the door open. Otherwise, how would Dean call out to him to tell him not to use all the hot water, and how would he hear him calling to scold him for taking too long by asking if he fell in the toilet? He wouldn't barge in to take a piss or to have a shave whilst Sam was still showering. Just to annoy him. It wouldn't make a difference now whether the door was open or closed. He was alone.

The water pattered down behind him. Just like the sprinklers had done earlier. A voice rose through the pit-patter of the droplets. The water ran from him, clean. No more blood. He didn't feel clean. Calling his name. He shook his blank stare from a blob of mould that was growing in the corner of the shower. Heard his name again. Dean? His heart beat faster, an inexplicable hope that was dashed by him meeting Bobby's kind eyes fixed on him. Kind eyes that were red rimmed with grief, lack of sleep and Sam's heart sank even further into his feet as he was sure he noticed a tiny glimmer of fear in the old man's stare.

"Hey, Bobby." He struggled the words out, his voice a throaty whisper. Bobby reached over him as he squinted up at the old hunter, turning off the shower head. Sam noticed there was no steam. Not anymore.

"Get up, kid. You're not doing yourself any good. Come on."

Not doing myself any good doing what? I can't... can't do myself any good. _I'm not good. _I'm... I'm... I'm _freezing_. A huge shudder suddenly coursed through Sam's curled up body as he realised he'd been sitting under a stream of ice cold water. Bobby sighed, averting his eyes slightly in the hope that Sam wasn't embarrassed. He wasn't. He longed Bobby to look at him, to look him in the eye.

Because he was scared that he wasn't looking at him because he couldn't bear to. Can't bear to look at me. Because of what I am. _Because of what I am and what I'm scared of being. _Sam bit his bottom lip, hard as he could manage until the taste of blood filled his mouth, momentarily hurting just enough to forget that when he walked back into the bedroom, his big brother wouldn't be there.

RDGRDGRDGRDGRDG

Sam didn't want to look at the other bed. The empty bed. Curled up as far as he could, his bare feet cold but finally wearing dry clothes, he made himself as small as he could, his chin between his knees and his hair still wet and pushed back. He leaned against the rickety headboard and glanced at Bobby. He looked nervous. And lost. He knew Bobby was going to be lost. He loved Dean too. But he didn't want to talk. Didn't want to say anything. Couldn't. He had to think. Think. And think hard. He concentrated on breathing in, out, in, out, tapping his fingers on his knees. _Think_. Gotta solve this. Gotta make it right. Think.

"Sam?"

He heard him. He pretended he didn't. Squeezed his eyes shut, pretending he wasn't here. Like it could be that Tuesday again. Or Wednesday. Or some day that meant he'd get to just talk to his brother just one more time. He knew it wouldn't work. Not this time. But just in case. He didn't look up. He didn't want to talk. Don't speak to me. Please... please don't make me say anything. Eyes closed tight.

He jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder. Didn't know what time it was. It was still dark. Time didn't matter anyway. He squinted up against the golden glow of the small bedside lamp, Bobby's beard and crooked smile looking almost homely. He still didn't speak.

Bobby sank down on the edge of his bed and Sam eyed him suspiciously. He was holding a steaming hot mug and tried to get him to take it. He shook his head. Don't want to. Don't want to do anything. Just want to think... to work out... to make it right.

"Sam, come on. Drink this. Boy, you're still shivering; you need something to warm you up. Come on." Bobby moved a little closer to Sam and nervously took his hand away from his knees, fearing it would be rapidly snatched away from him. It wasn't; he placed the watery motel-freebie hot chocolate into Sam's hand.

Sam sighed as he felt his hand placed around the mug; it did feel good. He clutched the mug and sipped gently, his chin quivering just slightly as he remembered the last time he'd had such crappy hot chocolate. He'd had the flu and was trying to work through it, but he felt like crap. Dean knew. _Dean knew._ God, he missed him so much already. He yawned, suddenly feeling tired. He didn't want to sleep, couldn't fall asleep because he didn't want to wake up on his own. His heart was beating faster, rising to a crescendo when suddenly he realised it wasn't his heart; he could hear something. He could _feel _something. He slowly rose to his feet, twitching the tattered curtains and cautiously peering out. It was sunny. He smiled. He knew that's what he'd heard. His eyes widened; knowing he recognised another sound… yes, he did. Van Halen.

The Impala was sitting outside, her chrome gleaming proudly and her engine chugging away keenly. Suddenly Sam felt warm and a huge grin spread over his face, running outside barefoot and leaving the room door swinging as he dove into the passenger seat of the car. Dean sat at the wheel, his cheeky, shit-eating grin as broad as he'd ever seen it, his blonde hair falling in curtains around his ears and wearing a blue denim jacket. Sam ducked, swearing at his brother as he tried to ruffle his hair, turning round and fighting him off with his bare feet.

"Come on, Geekboy, get your feet off've my leather!"

"Not _your _leather!" Sam retorted.

"Is too. Dad says." The sunlight shone around Dean's head, his golden hair illuminated. "Now are we getting ice cream or what?"

"I'm too old for that."

"Too old for ice cream? Come on... my treat!"

"I'm not fcking four, Dean."

"Ooh. Not-fcking-four are you not? Well, if you're done fcking cursing at me then you can get the fck out of my fcking car." Dean leaned over and started to play-fight Sam, and he squealed in indignation. No way could he fight his big brother. Dean was too strong. And too big. He laughed, swearing at his brother under his breath and knowing that he'd just got a dressing-down for his latest trait of using a curse as often as he could. He was just trying it out. You've gotta practise, right? And who better to practise on when you were thirteen than your stupid big brother? Dean laughed as he screeched the wheels out of the car park. Dad would kick his ass if he saw him driving the car like that. Didn't matter, he said. It's mine now.

The sun was still shining and he put his foot on the brake – man, he'd not driven the Impala in ages. He turned up the radio and the window was down, his long hair blowing in the breeze and looking down at his big brother, sleeping in the passenger seat, his hair now cut short and wearing his shades. Nothing outside. Nothing for miles. Just Dean, him and the road.

Sam leaned over and prodded Dean roughly, waking him up with a jerk and grinning as they started to sing... what were they singing? Bon Jovi. Bon Jovi? It was dark. Getting darker. _I'm a cowboy. _

"Drive faster Sammy. Please." Desperation in his brother's voice

He pressed his foot down to the floor and gritted his teeth. Come on. Come on. Faster. On a steel horse I ride. Not fast enough. Come on!!

"They're coming".

"I'm driving as fast as I can, Dean, it won't do any more!" He panicked; please, please, faster. Don't let them catch us. Don't let who catch us?

"Come on, faster Sam!"

He's running. Running through a forest. Dean's up ahead of him, his bare arms visible under his green football vest and his hair long again, an unhealed wound on his cheek from one of his first hunts. Can't breathe. _Dean – wait! _Dean peels away from him, vanishing into the darkness as Sam screams for his brother. I can't keep up. I'm too small. The forest starts to spin around him and he knows he's alone, all alone and he tries to run... tries to go the direction that his brother has but he doesn't know which way that is anymore. I'm too little. His hands splayed out in front of him to stop him falling and he feels his chest fall into the soft, cold, wet ground, the skin scraping off his chubby palms. Face down on the forest floor, he screams his brother's name, loud and desperate. I want Dean. Where's my brother? Dean!!

"It's okay Sammy. It's okay." Dean's in front of him, picking him up, his freckles more prominent than Sam ever remembered them being and his pre-teen voice gentle and soothing.

"I... I cut my hands." Sam sobs into his brother's chest, surprised at how easily he fits there, particularly as Dean was so small himself.

"I know. I know Sammy. Sssh." Dean's rubbing his back and they're not in the forest anymore. The sun was bright again and they were standing back next to the Impala.

"You're... you're grown up again..." Sam sobs as Dean reaches a thumb up to his little brother's face to wipe away a stray tear. Dean laughs at his brother and gives him a look that says 'awkward', then grins, turns away and flicks a beer bottle lid as far as he can. Sam leans on a fence and sucks down a huge gulp of his beer, his tears gone and the sun reflecting over the lake. Dean looks up to the sky where a dark cloud is gathering.

"Storm's coming."

"Uh huh."

"We'd better get out of here..." He looks to his brother. Sam knows he's right. Dean's always right. But he just wants to stay for a little while, just for another half hour... just him and Dean. The clouds are gathering. They look at each other; fear creeping into Dean's eyes. No, thinks Sam. Don't go. Don't you dare take him. Please. The sky turns black and Dean's eyes turn to pure terror as he's slammed onto the hood of the Impala with a huge crash, his jacket ripped from his body with a blood-curdling scream. Screaming his name. Screaming for Dean. Dean screaming for Sam. So much blood. _His brother's blood._ Pumping out of him with force and pooling on his chest. Stop it. No. Just fcking stop. He's dead. He's dead and they're still tearing him to pieces. Dean!

Bobby woke with a start, grasping desperately at what turned out to be the side of the sofa and just for a moment, he wasn't sure what had woken him. And just for a moment, it could all have been a nightmare. The most horrific nightmare he'd ever had, but not real, nonetheless.

Unfortunately, it was real. This was happening. They were still in the motel room. And Dean was still dead. And where the hell was Sam? The old hunter leapt to his feet, instinctively starting for where he'd left Sam, asleep but curled up into the smallest ball that he could possibly manage. There was nothing but a crumpled bedspread. Shit. Another sob. Empty bed. Bobby spun on his heels, heart pounding, adrenaline pumping.

Sam was huddled in the far corner of the room, his hands over his ears as he rocked and screamed over and over, the same words. "No, Dean. No, Dean. No, Dean..." He kept his head down low. Holy mother of God, Bobby thought, what the hell was I thinking to knock the kid out after he'd seen something like that... he knew Sam suffered nightmares. Take the fact that he was a crack shot with psychic ability out of the equation, and you were still left with a kid who couldn't walk into a McDonalds and hated scary movies. Singer, you're a moron. And he wasn't quite sure how to handle this. He was good at scolding the boys. Hell, he could chew their ears off soon as look at them. Both of them. He could tell them to pull themselves together. He could give out the fatherly sarcasm, all of which were fine for dealing with the arrogant ass that was Dean Winchester.

But this wasn't Dean. No matter how hard he tried to be. Another panicked scream rose from Sam's broken body, accompanied by a dry, desperate sob. He wasn't awake. Not quite.

"Sam!" Bobby's voice was stern. It was the only way he knew to handle this. He didn't respond. His whimpering voice weakened, pulling at his own hair as he continued to mutter to himself. Wearily dropping to his knees in front of the distraught young man, Bobby called his name again.

"Sam. Sam, look at me. Please. Please." His voice was gentle, pleading with him, trying to avoid the hitch in his voice as he felt a rogue tear run down into his beard and slowly distribute itself through the bristles. He grasped Sam's hands – hell, what had happened to him? He was... every inch of him was squeaky clean before he'd fallen asleep. Somehow, from somewhere, his fingernails were covered in blood and his palms were grazed like he'd taken a kiddie playground tumble somewhere. Holy crap...

"Sam. Stop it. Come on. It's me. Wake up Sam!" He shouted, a little more aggressively than he'd intended, but what the freakin' hell else was he supposed to do?

Sam's head snapped up, his hazel eyes unseeing and blinking quickly, his breath coming in loud, hitching breaths and tremors reverberating through all six feet four of his strong frame. Dean? What the – where was... shit. "B-bobby?"

Sam's confused gaze fell on the older hunter, still overwhelmed by terror but not knowing why, not remembering what he'd just dreamt but unable to stop the tears falling. Bobby roughly pulled his hands from his face, looking at Sam with a mixture of terror and confusion.

"What happened to your hands, Sam?" Bobby held Sam's trembling palms face up to him. The palms were skinned, grazed with ingrained dirt and gravel. And they were sore.

"I fell. In the forest." Sam's answer was automatic – but he didn't remember falling. Had he fallen?

Fell? Fell where? Bobby's mind was spinning. What the hell was going on with this boy – he hadn't _been _anywhere. Unconsciously, he dropped Sam's palms and found himself looking deep into his eyes, searching for ... dammit Bobby, what the hell are you looking for? His mind was spinning. _Do you think there's something wrong with my brother?_ And what about the dreamwalking? And earlier... earlier tonight. Bobby gasped and swallowed deeply as he tried not to recall, tried not to relive Sam striding out amongst Lillith's demon army, and every recruit retreating as quickly as possible. Berating himself for daring to think it, he looked again at the young man curled up, quivering through cold, exhaustion and grief. But most of all fear.

"What's happening to me, Bobby?" His voice was weak, small. And terrified. He stared up at Bobby, the look in his eyes one that he'd seen so many times before. But never directed at him. To his Daddy, yes. More often to his brother. But all the time meaning the same. _I'm scared. Make it alright. Please? _

_I'm sorry, Sam. I can't._ Tears began to fall from the older man's eyes as he found himself doing something that it hadn't felt natural to do for years. Something totally alien to him. He opened his arms out to Sam, meeting his teary eyed stare and silently telling him it was okay to cry, it was okay to fall apart because he was pretty close to it himself.

A huge sob escaped Sam's lungs as he saw Bobby's tears beginning to fall. Please Bobby. _Please don't be scared of me._ Please... his stomach rolled but he knew there was no point even trying to throw up because it wouldn't make him feel any better. Even that was useless. He felt his jaw twitch as he saw Bobby spread his arms wide, welcoming him into an embrace that he'd needed for the last six months at least. He sank against the shorter man, oblivious to the fact that he almost knocked him flat to the ground and gripped hold of Bobby's filthy workshirt as if his life depended on it. Maybe it did. The sobs turned to howls of grief as Bobby gripped Sam's shoulders, rocking gently backwards and forwards.

He felt Sam's grief in waves; big, heaving waves of guilt, regret, and most of all, an overwhelming love for his brother now with no outlet; nobody left for him to love so much. Bobby squeezed his eyes shut; tears for the older Winchester boy who'd loved his brother so much coursing down his weathered face. He'd let Dean down twelve months ago. He'd let him down twelve hours ago when they'd failed to find a way to save him.

He wasn't going to let him down again. He was still here. And so was Dean's Sammy. He'd watch out for him. For Dean. He had to. He was the only one who could.

He didn't know how long they sat there for, but eventually Sam's sobbing subsided and he seemed to be sleeping; still clinging onto Bobby's shirt like some kind of weird security blanket. All six feet four of Sam, clinging to his shirt. How the hell could he be scared of that? He'd have smiled if it wasn't so soul destroying. And suddenly he realised. It didn't matter what was going on with Sam. He was all Sam had left. And Sam was all that he had left.

And whatever crazy assed plan little Sammy had now, he knew if he pushed against it, he'd be letting Sam down too.

_Family don't end with blood_. And I'll do whatever it is my family needs me to do to get through this.

To get us both through it.


End file.
